


ten years or a thousand

by mimosaeyes



Series: somewhere only we know [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slice of Life, reference to 164, they save the world and build a home together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimosaeyes/pseuds/mimosaeyes
Summary: Jon, Martin, and one morning in the life they learn to live together.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: somewhere only we know [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1854337
Comments: 26
Kudos: 342





	ten years or a thousand

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _This is How You Lose the Time War_ by Amal el-Mohtar and Max Gladstone. Full sentence: “I want to drink tea beside you in ten years or a thousand.”
> 
> Beta-ed by [animaginaryquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/animaginaryquill).

Martin shifts in his sleep, instinctively reaching for the left side of the bed. Instead of finding Jon there, his hand touches cool sheets.

Oh, right. He rubs his eyes, remembering. There was a phone call earlier. How long ago had that been? Martin mulls over this and ends up dozing for a few more minutes. 

He’s too used to cuddling with Jon, though. Sleeping in just isn’t as satisfying without his slight frame to curl up around.

After a tiring day once, when Martin had wrapped his arms around Jon particularly snugly, he’d huffed and complained, “I’m not your teddy bear.” He said this in the same tones he’d used when he stood in the middle of a post-apocalyptic world and uttered the words _I am not, nor have I ever been, adorable._

“Aren’t you, though?” Martin had murmured, scrunching up his nose to itch at it. Jon’s hair was getting ticklishly long.

A pause. “Can I negotiate for a sort of... crotchety Paddington?”

Martin hadn’t even needed to stop and consider this. “That’s an affront. You’re stuck as a pink bunny rabbit now, sorry.”

With the characteristic sigh of someone getting up hours before they intended to on a weekend, Martin kicks the covers off of himself. As he stands and quickly makes the bed, he realises that the low rumble he’s hearing is actually Jon’s voice, coming from the next room over. It’s muffled a little by the thin walls of their apartment, enough that Martin can’t make out from here what Jon is saying.

He slips out into the short corridor. There’s a little ball of dread in the pit of his stomach — what if Jon’s still on the phone, and it’s bad news? Surely no one would call at such an hour unless there was some kind of emergency. Didn’t Georgie mention needing to take Melanie for a routine check-up with her ophthalmologist, the other day? And it’s been a while since Daisy and Basira last checked in with them while backpacking in Peru...

Martin pauses one door along. Jon’s voice is steady and soothing, but it’s immediately obvious from what he’s saying that there is no distraught friend on the other end of the line.

“ _All alone, Stellaluna flew and flew_ ,” Jon reads aloud, “ _until she dropped into a tree. ‘I promised not to hang by my feet,’ Stellaluna sighed. So she hung by her thumbs, and soon fell asleep._ ”

It’s a children’s book, one that Martin has a certain fondness for. Stellaluna the bat gets lost and is fostered among some baby birds for a while. After she’s reunited with her mother, the birds and bats discover that they’re not so different after all.

He starts to smile involuntarily as Jon continues. “ _She didn’t hear the soft sound of wings coming near. ‘Hey!’ a loud voice said. ‘Why’re you hanging upside down?’_ ”

Oh, he loves it when Jon does the different voices.

Moving as silently as he can, Martin goes back to their bedroom and through to the en suite. The pipes tend to get a little whiny this time of year as the cold sets in, so he flushes the toilet and then reflexively shushes it. Jon had laughed when he first witnessed Martin addressing inanimate objects like this. He’d been apologising to a spoon for dropping it while doing the dishes.

It’s nice, brushing his teeth and washing his face while Jon reads in the background. In a wholesome version of how he used to record statements as the Archivist, Jon has been volunteering as a storyteller for children who need to stay in hospital a while. He often does this over video-call for those who are immunocompromised, although since this session wasn’t scheduled ahead of time, Martin suspects it may be by special request. There’s a little girl named Jamie who always asks for Jon. He’s her favourite reader.

Jon had been so nervous when he first signed up. “What if they’re frightened of me? I mean, you’re used to seeing my scars, but surely they’d be off-putting for a child at first.” He’d wrung his hands and kept adjusting his shirt and cardigan, tugging the sleeves down to hide every square inch of his arms.

Martin had grabbed his hands to still them. “The hospital’s volunteer management team gave you the go-ahead, didn’t they? You’ll be fine. Honestly, in my experience, most kids _want_ to hear about gruesome scars.”

“They do?” Jon looked dazed at the prospect. “I’m not sure that’s an age-appropriate story.”

“It’s a sort of morbid fascination. Trust me,” Martin said, squeezing his hand. “If she asks, just... tell her about the corkscrew.”

This detail, in fact, had fascinated Jamie so much that Jon barely had enough time to get through the copy of _The Rainbow Fish_ he had borrowed from a library. Although there were also delays from all the times Jamie had stopped him to ask what kind of silver worms they were. “Do you mean silverfish like in books? You _look_ like a librarian, Mr. Blackwood-Sims, was it at work that the silverfish attacked you? Are there worms in this book?”

Martin finishes up and heads back to the small kitchen, where he stacks and moves some things on the counter to eke out enough space to prepare breakfast. It didn’t use to be so cramped in here, but all the dry foodstuffs had had to go somewhere after they converted their surprisingly large pantry into a tiny study.

Most of the shelves are now full of Martin’s books, since he’s gone back to university to finish his degree part-time. Tucked in on the lowest shelf, within Jon’s easy reach while he’s seated at the desk they got in, is a collection of children’s books. Once Martin realised that Jon reads via video-call rather than over the phone, he’d taken great pleasure in going to Waterstones and splurging on the prettiest editions he could find, full of bright illustrations for Jon to show the webcam.

Hmm. What’s the quietest breakfast to make? Not just plain toast or cereal; that’s what they have on weekday mornings before rushing off to work or class. He’d have to beat the eggs quite vigorously for an omelette, so that’s out too. 

Perhaps some pancakes. Martin nods to himself, opens the cupboard to get out the flour, and promptly slams the door into the top of his head.

He purses his lips and bites down to stop himself from yelping, although he allows himself a quiet, “Ow.” Damn, he’s clumsy before his first cup of tea. He always forgets that the overhead cabinets are just low enough to create a hazard for him, but just high enough to trick his brain into thinking he isn’t that tall.

This had actually been a real point of contention when they were apartment-hunting. Martin had felt guilty that they couldn’t afford a bigger, better flat since he was only working part-time while he indulged in reading a degree that was more for personal edification and enjoyment than professional advancement. “You want to take classes, don’t you?” Jon had asked, and the moment Martin said, “Yes,” shrugging to downplay how fervently he meant it, Jon simply said, “Then take the classes. Don’t you dare quit for my sake. Let someone else look after you for a change.”

Martin’s history with his mother had hung over the conversation for a moment. “But the cupboards are kind of high up for you,” he hedged.

“Martin Blackwood,” Jon said then, mildly exasperated. “I just promised to take care of you. Do you really think I’d draw the line at getting a step-stool?”

Said step-stool is currently stowed away in the gap between the counter and the fridge. Martin smiles at it lopsidedly while he rubs his head.

The door to the study opens. Jon appears, his face worried and his hair ruffled up as it always is in the mornings if he hasn’t had time to brush and style it properly. Combined with the thick-rimmed glasses he wears while reading, it makes him look a bit like a startled baby owl. Not that Martin would ever say this to him.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, standing in the doorway and looking over Martin for visible injuries. “I heard a loud thud, did you drop something?”

“Uhhh. No?”

Jon misinterprets his hesitation as he notices that Martin is still touching his sore spot. “Oh my god, did you fall and hit your head?” He’s already crossing the room quickly toward Martin.

“No! I just — I bumped my head on the cupboard door again,” Martin admits, now flustered as well as embarrassed. “I was trying to be quiet, I could hear you reading... Oh no, have I interrupted _Stellaluna_?” 

He falls silent as Jon perches himself on the small bit of counter space and gestures for him to come closer. Obediently, knowing there’ll be no rest from Jon’s fussing otherwise, he does.

“We finished reading, don’t worry,” Jon replies, after gently touching the area for a few seconds. “And I appreciate you trying to be stealthy.”

He leans in, and Martin feels a light touch on his scalp, barely perceptible through his hair.

“What are you doing?” he asks, pulling back just far enough to look at Jon.

Jon looks sheepish. “I’m, uh... kissing it better?”

Martin stares. “I’m going to add that to my list of reasons you’re adorable.”

“What? Why?” It’s weird how indignant Jon is. It’s weirder still how endearing Martin finds that. “Lots of people do it. It’s a thing. And — and you don’t actually have a list, do you?”

Martin doesn’t, but he’s going to start one now. He already has plenty of material. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says, just to torment him.

Jon narrows his eyes. “I could tickle it out of you,” he threatens.

“We both know you’re more ticklish than I am.”

“I could... I could refuse to tell you where the empty jar you want is.”

This makes Martin pause. Every household has that one cupboard full of empty plastic boxes for keeping leftovers, or jars for things that can’t always stay in their original packaging once it’s been opened. Like those peppermint humbugs that Martin likes every so often. Inevitably, smaller boxes end up being stored inside bigger ones, which in turn get stacked on top of each other, so that opening the cupboard is not unlike peering through a portal into a hellish dimension full of humanity’s primordial fears.

At least, according to Martin. Jon insists that he’s being hyperbolical. But then, even sans Beholding powers, Jon has shown a bizarre talent for knowing exactly where in this mess to find a container of just the size and shape they need — and how to extricate it without causing an avalanche. The only way Martin has thought of to get back at him for this ability is to call it _spooky_. Jon still hates that word.

Weakly, belatedly, Martin counters, “Well... I could refuse to make you pancakes.”

Jon’s grin is smug. “You love making pancakes.”

“I do,” Martin whines, capitulating at once. He lets his head fall forward onto Jon’s shoulder in mock despair. “Do you want chocolate chips or blueberries today,” he mumbles.

“Chocolate chips, so I can send a picture to Jamie,” Jon replies. So Martin did guess correctly.

“How is she?” he asks, reluctantly withdrawing. He goes to fetch the flour — more carefully this time.

“More of the same,” Jon says with a sigh. “It’s nothing serious, but she was feeling lonely and her mum’s working a double, so...”

Martin hums in sympathy.

They fall silent as they settle into their usual breakfast routine. The kitchen area is small enough that when they’re both there at the same time, they have to move in a sort of dance around each other. They’ve kind of mastered it, though. Jon measures out the flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt while Martin retrieves milk from the fridge and melts some butter. Without needing to speak, they switch places at the stove and counter.

As Martin mixes the batter and starts making the pancakes, he tells Jon about the pretentious academic jargon in the latest readings he’s been assigned. Jon resumes his perch on the counter and listens in his quiet way. Now and then, he chimes in with a dry remark, and taps Martin’s spatula-holding hand to remind him to flip the pancakes. 

He knows just when to get the plates out to receive the first one, and when to hop off the counter again to start the kettle going for tea. Taking out their usual mugs, he asks with familiar ease if Martin wants Yorkshire or Tetley’s today. Martin considers. He really shouldn’t rely so much on caffeine to start his day, as too many tannins give him a headache. It’ll probably be fine if he sticks to green tea later in the afternoon, though, and they usually do.

Martin freezes as he thinks this. Jon notices almost immediately. “What is it?”

“Jon,” he says. “Jon, we’re so _settled_. We drink the same few teas. We make the same few meals. The worst thing that happens is I bump my head on a cupboard door.”

“And this... is a bad thing?” Jon asks dubiously.

“Yes! Except no! And, it’s amazing!”

Now Jon is looking at him like he thinks Martin may have hit his head harder than he thought. Hurriedly, Martin explains. “I just. A couple years ago, if someone had told me I’d get to have this... I mean, _pancakes_ , Jon. I — I wouldn’t have believed it. You know?”

“Oh.” Jon smiles then, soft and slow. “Yes, I... I see what you mean.” Quite absently, he chooses the tea and pours the hot water. 

Martin smiles to himself and finishes plating up the last pancakes. He likes to make them small and thick and fluffy, so that three of them make a cute stack. Today he’s put extra effort into his chocolate chip distribution, for Jamie’s sake.

Jon doesn’t even make it through his second pancake before he has to stifle a yawn. “Sorry,” he says. “The call woke me up pretty early. We got through _The Velveteen Rabbit_ twice before _Stellaluna_.”

“Go back to bed?” Martin suggests.

Jon pulls a face. “I’ve got some work to do. Anyway, napping would wreck my sleep cycle — you never have the heart to wake me up.”

That’s true enough. Martin spent years watching Jon get less and less sleep, grow more and more haggard. He doesn’t think the shadows will ever entirely disappear from underneath his eyes, but Jon still looks so much better now. 

He _is_ so much better now. They both are.

“Bring it over to the sofa,” Martin says. “I have two long chapters to read for a history elective. We’ll make a day of it.”

Jon ends up dozing anyway, of course, his head landing heavy on Martin’s shoulder. Martin takes his glasses off for him and moves his precariously balanced laptop to the coffee table.

Five pages on, Martin considers shaking him awake to show him a nerdy pun the author of this book just made. Jon looks so peaceful like this, though. Sometimes, he goes weeks without a bad day, without panic attacks at the grocery store or nightmares waking him up yelling and thrashing.

Martin presses a kiss to Jon’s temple like he can kiss _that_ better — all the things he’s seen and sacrificed. He knows he can’t, of course. He knows it’ll be weeks, and then months; that it’ll be slow, with setbacks as often as progress.

Two more pages, he decides indulgently. He can let Jon sleep for as long as it takes him to read another two pages. For years, it had been one crisis after another, with no breathing room in between. 

There’s no hurry now. There’s only this.

**Author's Note:**

> Available on tumblr [here](https://mimosaeyes.tumblr.com/post/617096396588384256/jon-martin-and-one-morning-in-the-life-they).
> 
> The working title for this fic was “pre-emptive domesticity fluff the first”. Because I know TMA is a tragedy, and soft escapism is how I intend to cope with season five.


End file.
